


Five Times Jeremy Doesn't Care That James is Gay (And One Time He Does)

by nm_317



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Coming Out, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nm_317/pseuds/nm_317
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does what it says on the tin, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Jeremy Doesn't Care That James is Gay (And One Time He Does)

#1  
  
“Wait. You drive a Bentley that you can’t fit in your garage?” Jeremy Clarkson leans forward, elbows on the table, then exchanges a quick look of disbelief and mirth with Andy Wilman.  
  
“Yeah.” James wipes his sweaty palms on his trouser legs and tries to look confident but just a little daft as well.  
  
Fuck he wants this job, wants to fit in.  
  
“Well – well, what else do you drive?”  
  
James smiles. “That’s it. That’s my car.”  
  
Jeremy’s voice rises in pitch as he asks, “So you rent a garage?” James nods. “In your neighborhood?”  
  
“About seven miles away.”  
  
“Wait.” Wilman holds one hand up. “How do you get there?”  
  
James can feel his smile break into a grin. “Folding bicycle.”  
  
Once their guffaws have petered out into intermittent chuckles, Jeremy and Wilman –  _Andy, he said to call him Andy_  - share another look, and Jeremy gives a slight nod.  
  
“James,” Andy begins, his voice sounding odd through the  _whump-whump_  of James’ pounding heart, “we’d like to offer you a job as a presenter on  _Top Gear._ ”  
  
“Yes,” he answers, before the last syllable is even all the way out of Andy’s mouth.  
  
“Good man,” Jeremy booms, reaching across the table and patting James’ shoulder with one large hand. James tries to suppress the flinch, but he must not be entirely successful because Jeremy pulls his hand back with an odd look on his face.  
  
“Before…” James looks down at the table, swallowing nervously. “Before we make this official, there’s – there’s something you should know first.”  
  
James hears nothing for a moment and suspects Jeremy and Andy are participating in more of their silent communication. Then, Andy says, “All right.”  
  
James lifts his head, forcing the eye contact on himself, despite how much he’d rather stare at his shoes, or the crack in the wall just beyond Jeremy’s left ear. “I’m gay.”  _Shit._  That wasn’t how he’d meant to say it.  
  
He waits for a response, his face reddening. Andy merely blinks a few times, and Jeremy only leans back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, a small smirk on his face.  
  
“Okay,” Andy says, finally.  
  
“I – I’m not out, publicly. Not yet.” Of course he’s not, why would he be, when “the public” is mostly unaware of his existence. “But I - I didn’t want to mislead you.”  
  
“Mislead us into what?” Andy splutters. “Do you think we wouldn’t want to take car advice from a man, just because he likes cock? That we’d find out and feel as if you, I don’t know, misrepresented yourself?”  
  
James shrugs uncomfortably, but doesn’t mention the reason he really thinks he’d been fired from  _Autocar_. While the little prank he pulled with the hidden message was certainly the straw that broke the camel’s back, nothing had been the same for him there after….  
  
Well, maybe things will be different this time if he lets them know upfront.  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Andy continues. “Does it matter to you, Jeremy?”  
  
“Nope.” And James almost smiles at the conviction he hears in the other man’s voice. Almost.  
  
“All right, then. Let me get the papers you need to sign. Unless there’s anything else you want to share? That – that thing on your head, that’s not a wig, is it?”  
  
Finally, James’ lips quirk. “No.”  
  
Andy smiles back and disappears.  
  
“So,” Jeremy says when Andy’s out of earshot, leaning forward again and grabbing a crisp out of the bag lying open on the table. “Want to tell me what happened?”  
  
“What do you mean ‘what happened?’”  
  
Jeremy shrugs. “The way you jumped. When I touched you. Something happened.”  
  
“Maybe I just don’t want you touching me, Clarkson.” James chides himself internally for being so…comfortable with the other man, but there’s something about Jeremy that screams for it. “Ever think of that?”  
  
The older man grins. “No.”  
  
James sighs. “It’s not important.”  
  
“All right.” But from the way he says it, James thinks this won’t be the last time he asks. “Do you mind if I take the piss?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“About your being gay. Do you mind if I joke about it? Not – I won’t let it be known that you actually  _are_ , I just….”  
  
“You’re just a bit of an arse, and you find something and then you poke at it.”  
  
”Ah, so you’ve seen my work.” Jeremy grins around the crisp in his mouth.  
  
“You’re going to take the piss about something; may as well be that.”  
  
Other than the crunch of Jeremy’s snacking, it’s quiet for a while, until Jeremy wonders, “What are you afraid of?”  
  
“I knew you couldn’t leave it alone.” James sighs, and wonders how vague he can be, wonders what will please Clarkson. “Andy acts like it’s ridiculous, the notion that someone won’t want to take car advice from a – from a queer. I can assure you, it’s not.” James chews on the end of his thumbnail while Jeremy sits silently. Finally, in a small voice, James continues, “I don’t want to ruin the show.”  
  
Jeremy grins and claps his hand on James’ shoulder. This time, James doesn’t flinch. “May, you have god-awful clothes, even more rubbish hair, and your taste in cars is appalling. You might ruin the show, but it won’t be because you’re a homosexualist.”  
  
James grins back, relieved beyond measure. Maybe this will work. Maybe it will even be good.  
  
  
  
#2  
  
Jeremy elbows James, earning an “Oi!” when James nearly jostles the beer held to his lips. “What’d you want?”  
  
“The man at that table over there – no, don’t look! He’s been looking at you for the last 15 minutes.”  
  
James manages to glance in the correct direction somewhat subtly. “Bollocks. He’s probably looking at Hammond.”  
  
Richard pauses in telling the new research assistant the story of how he met Oliver – Jeremy is sure he sees relief in the young man’s eyes at the reprieve – to lean over. “You should go for it.”  
  
James turns back to his beer, taking a couple of slow swallows before murmuring, “Come off it, Hammond. I’m sure he doesn’t want to get off with someone like me.”  
  
Richard exchanges a glance with Jeremy then gets out of his chair with a shrug. “All right, then. Suit yourself.” He squeezes his way to the end of the table then leans over James’ shoulder, hand on his arm, and reaches for James’ cigarettes. “I’m nicking a fag, mate. Anyone want to join me?”  
  
Jeremy does, he really does, but when James declines, he does as well. He thinks the smile Richard shoots his way is one of appreciation, and he’s glad James has Richard, too. Between the two of them, maybe they can look after James.  
  
He turns in his seat, effectively blocking him and James from the rest of their group, and taps a couple of times on James’ forearm. “Hammond’s not here,” he says quietly. “And that bloke’s looking over here again. Just go talk to him. Say ‘hello.’” He laughs at his own impression of James.  
  
“’M not interested.”  
  
“In what? In that man? Why not? He hasn’t got any hideous deformities that I can see.” Jeremy frowns. “I’ve known you were gay since almost the moment I met you. And I can count on one hand – the hand of an inept woodworking teacher, mind – the number of times you’ve been on a date. And I’ve never known you to be in a relationship. Hell, I’ve never even seen you chat up someone.”  
  
James props his elbow on the table and rests his temple against his hand. He looks tired. “I don’t, much.”  
  
“Date?”  
  
“Date, talk to…any of it.”  
  
“Whyever not?”  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“James…. Is it – is it that you’re worried? About the show, if it gets out? We told you, we’re behind you all the way. We don’t….”  
  
“S’not that,” James mutters quietly. “Well, not really.”  
  
“Want me to go talk to him? Make sure he’s not an arsehole, first? I can….”  
  
“Jezza,” James interrupts again. This time he finally looks up, and Jeremy is shocked to see his eyes are wet. “Leave it alone. Please.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah. All right.”  
  
\--  
  
Jeremy does leave it alone. Sort of. For a bit. But a month later he turns up to meet James, Richard, Andy, and most of the crew at the pub near their White City office with Michael in tow. Jeremy thanks a god he’s pretty sure he doesn’t believe in that James and Richard are sitting alone at a table, involved in what sounds like a pointless argument about amphibious vehicles. Making a mental note to definitely look into that for the upcoming series, he interrupts them.  
  
“Boys,” he says, sliding into one of the empty seats and gesturing for Michael to take the other, “this is Michael. We were at Repton together, and he’s just moved to London. Michael, the shortarse is Richard, and the spaniel with the 70s fashion sense is James.”  
  
Once introductions are finished, Michael offers to buy a round. When he gets up to go to the bar, Jeremy turns to James. “What do you think?”  
  
Richard starts giggling, but James just looks mortified. “Clarkson, you haven’t.”  
  
Jeremy holds up one hand to forestall his objections. “No pressure. I didn’t even tell him about you. I figure, you could show him around or something. If nothing else, maybe you’ll get another friend out of it.”  
  
James leans forward across the table. “Do you even know he’s gay? Or are you just assuming he is because you saw him singing along to Cher once?”  
  
“He definitely is. I’ve not done this without thinking, James. I really think you’ll get on.”  
  
James rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to say something, but then Michael returns with their drinks and he shuts his mouth.  
  
\--  
  
An hour later, James gets up from the table, cigarettes in hand.  
  
“Mind if I come?” Michael asks, lifting his jacket off the back of the chair.  
  
“Not at all. Hammond? Clarkson?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll….” Richard starts to say, until Jeremy kicks him in the shin. “Ow. Fuck. Yeah, never mind. I forgot. I, uh, I’m supposed to be quitting. Again.”  
  
“Not for me, thanks,” Jeremy answers, smiling at James. James returns the smile with a frown.  
  
Richard waits until the door shuts behind them before asking, “Did you have to kick me that hard?”  
  
“Shut up, Hamster. I’m trying to do good here.”  
  
“Are you really, though? Or are you just having fun messing with James’ love life?”  
  
Jeremy stands suddenly, his chair making a loud scrape against the floor as he pushes it away from the table. “Fuck you.” He heads for the toilet, entering the stall with a clang. He doesn’t need it, just wanted the time alone, but he pisses anyway.  
  
With a solid kick to the rubbish bin on his way out the door, he feels a little better.  
  
“I’m sorry, mate,” is the first thing Richard says when he sits back down.  
  
“Yeah.” He picks at the cardboard coaster under his glass for a bit before saying, “You and James are two of my best mates. I know I’m an arse, but do you really think I’d hurt either of you like that?”  
  
“No – I…no, Jez. ‘Course not.”  
  
Jeremy nods and leans back in his seat. “I hate to think about him being alone.”  
  
“So do I, but…he’s James. He might legitimately prefer it that way.”  
  
Jeremy crosses his arms over his chest. “He might, but I’m not convinced.”  
  
Richard nods and opens his mouth to speak when the door opens and James walks in, talking animatedly to Michael behind him. Jeremy smiles into his beer.  
  
\--  
  
It’s late when Michael finally leaves, nearly two hours after Richard had set off for home. “Nice seeing you, Jeremy. And nice meeting you, James. I’ll see you this weekend.”  
  
James smiles and says his good-bye, then ducks behind his hair. Jeremy can see the smile still lurking there.  
  
“This weekend, James?” Jeremy teases.  
  
James finally looks up, that smile permanently affixed. “He’s really nice. How  _did_  you two end up as friends?”  
  
“Hey. You’re nice, and I’m friends with you.”  
  
James smirks.  
  
“And…. About this weekend?”  
  
James takes a sip of his beer in an attempt to hide the flush on his cheeks, but it doesn’t work. “We’re going up in my plane Saturday. He’s interested in taking flying lessons. I thought I could show him what it was like.”  
  
“Is this a date?”  
  
James gives an abashed grin. “Might be.”  
  
Jeremy can’t help but grin back. He really has never seen James look so happy. “Good man.”  
  
“Jez?”  
  
“Hmm?  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
\--  
  
The next morning, Jeremy wakes with his usual post-pub hangover in James’ spare room to the sound of his mobile ringing. “Yeah?”  
  
“Jeremy? It’s Michael. I – I didn’t think to say anything last night, but, well, maybe I should. I, um, I like James. I mean, you know….”  
  
Jeremy leans back against the pillows and runs a hand across his face. “You want to date him.”  
  
“Yeah. And I thought, since the two of you are friends, that I should let you know.”  
  
“Michael? You don’t need my permission to date anyone.”  
  
“Yeah. I know that, I only….”  
  
“I’m happy for you two. Very happy. But Michael?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Don’t hurt him. Just…. I’m deadly serious. Don’t.”  
  
  
#3  
  
James and Michael’s relationship lasts about six months, but ends amicably, with the two men remaining friends. Michael is still an occasional guest at pub night, and Jeremy never had to show his violent side.  
  
But, most importantly, it gets James dating, and he comes out in the press. To James’ relief, no one seems to care.  
  
There aren’t a lot of men (at least not that James deems worthy of introducing to Jeremy), but there are enough to stop him and Hammond being worried. Interestingly, it’s a man named Oliver that everyone thinks is “the one,” something that amuses and rankles Richard in turn.  
  
When James enters the Portakabin 30 minutes late on a taping day, eyes red, hair messier than usual, wearing a stained t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve, body stiff with exhaustion and pent-up anger, Jeremy knows.  
  
“May?” Jeremy asks from his place on the couch. They’re meant to be going over the challenge already, but there’s a problem with a camera. While everyone else is outside freezing their arses off, Jeremy is taking advantage of the warm room for as long as he can.  
  
“Clarkson,” James mutters in reply, walking past him and into the small kitchen.  
  
With a quiet groan, Jeremy eases his sore body off the couch and limps into the kitchen. “James?”  
  
“What?” he snaps.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
James sighs, shoulders slumped, his body turned toward the kettle. He gives in, knowing it will all come out eventually. “Oliver and I have split up.”  
  
“I – fuck, James, I don’t know what to say. I thought things were going really well.”  
  
James shrugs. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s all right.”  
  
Jeremy acquiesces, for now. Now isn’t the time to upset James more by making him talk about feelings, or relationships. “All right. You, uh, you’d better see if you’ve got a comb and a spare set of clothes in the wardrobe, though. You look like hell, mate.”  
  
James sighs and rubs a hand over his face, then through his bedraggled hair. “Thanks, Clarkson, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.”  
  
Jeremy doesn’t take it personally; they’re honest about this kind of stuff to each other, and he’s sure James knows he isn’t looking his best.  
  
Stepping closer, he rests one hand on James’ shoulder. The other man flinches, and Jeremy’s brow furrows in confusion, though he doesn’t move his hand. In the previous few months, James has become more comfortable accepting these kinds of touches from his friends.  
  
He squeezes his hand, and James relaxes, just a touch. “Get cleaned up, and I’ll delay them a bit.”  
  
”Thanks.” James tries to disguise the sadness in his voice, but he’s not quite successful.  
  
Jeremy doesn’t know what to do. Richard is better at this, but Richard is outside smoking a fag or drooling over a supercar, anything but being useful.  
  
“Pub tonight?”  
  
Jeremy watches James’ throat move as he swallows, and his shoulders move into a half-hearted shrug, but he doesn’t say anything. Jeremy’s not sure he can.  
  
“All right,” he answers softly, hand brushing briefly across James’ shoulder blades. “Come outside when you’re ready.”  
  
James nods quickly, curving his arms across his chest, and Jeremy leaves before he has to see him break down.  
  
\--  
  
James does join them at the pub, though he’s sullen and uncommunicative. After the fifth growl of, “I don’t want to talk about it,” Jeremy and Richard finally stop asking what happened.  
  
Apparently, word hadn’t got around to everyone. About the time Jeremy thinks that James has had more than enough and they ought to pack it in, a tipsy Iain leans against their table and innocently asks about Oliver.  
  
James has never deserved his Captain Slow nickname less. In a blur of stripy jumper, James is up from his chair, fists clenched in Iain’s shirt, and has the other man pressed against the wall. “Is that supposed to be funny?”  
  
“What?! I – no, James, what…?”  
  
Perhaps because he’s the best accustomed to violence, Richard is the first to get to and grab at James. “Mate, come on. He didn’t know. Leave him be.”  
  
Jeremy and Andy are there next, and the three of them pull a shaking James away.  
  
“C’mon, James. Let’s go home,” Jeremy says quietly to the bowed head. “Richard, can you explain…?”  
  
“On it. Take care of him, yeah?”  
  
They stumble to James’, the younger man trembling with suppressed tears. He tries more than once to pull away, but each time Jeremy pulls him close and tells him to stop being such a pillock.  
  
James manages to make it as far as his front door before he vomits over the railing and into his flowerbed. “Oh god,” he groans.  
  
“Come on,” Jeremy says, tugging on his arm. “We’ll get you washed up and some water in you, and you’ll feel better.”  
  
Jeremy can hear James throw up two more times – once before his shower and once after – but he finally emerges from the loo in a clean shirt and pajama bottoms, looking less green around the gills.  
  
“Why are you in my bedroom, Clarkson?” he grumbles, as he takes the proffered glass of water from Jeremy’s hand and takes a few hesitant sips.  
  
“Making sure you’re not dead. You can thank me in the morning. Right before you call Iain and apologize.”  
  
James closes his eyes and drops heavily onto the bed. “Fuck.”  
  
“Yeah.” Gently, Jeremy takes the glass from James’ hand and places it on the nightstand.  
  
“I – shit. I thought he was taking the piss, I didn’t….”  
  
“I know. And he’ll understand. Richard stayed back to explain.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to hurt him.”  
  
“I’m sure he knows that. Well, now, anyway. You didn’t hurt him, just…sobered him up a bit.” Jeremy reaches toward James then pulls his hand back and shoves it into his pocket. Again he’s out of his element. James doesn’t respond to…well, to  _anything_ …the way anyone else in Jeremy’s life does. It’s one of the things he likes best about him, but it’s sure making this difficult.  
  
“Get under the covers,” he says, finally. With a roll of his eyes, James does that, his head propped up against two pillows, his eyes staring tiredly at Jeremy. When Jeremy pulls a wooden chair out of the corner and drops into it backwards, he sits up in protest, but groans and falls back when the movement makes his head hurt.  
  
“Out with it,” Jeremy says finally, folding his arms over the back of the chair.  
  
“Out with what? My boyfriend dumped me. I’m upset about it, and I reacted badly. The end. I’ll be all right in a bit. And I’ll call Iain tomorrow and apologize. And Andy. And it won’t happen again.”  
  
“I have no doubt about that. What happened?”  
  
“It wasn’t working, so he ended it. What more do you want, Clarkson?” James’ eyes shift away from Jeremy’s, and his fingers clench briefly in the covers.  
  
“I want the truth.”  
  
“I hate to be cliché, but you really couldn’t handle the truth in this case, Clarkson.” There’s that defensive posture again, James’ arms crossed tightly in front of him, his head bowed. Jeremy hates that look.  
  
“You didn’t hit him, did you? Make him do disturbing sex stuff?  _Refuse_  to do disturbing sex stuff? You aren’t into women now, are you?”  
  
That finally gets a small smile out of James. “None of those things. Especially not the last one.” He pretends to shudder in disgust.  
  
“Then tell me.”  
  
“You’ll hate me.” He glances up, and Jeremy can just tell: He wants to say it, needs to say it. He’s just not sure what will happen if he does.  
  
“I won’t. I swear, James. Whatever it is, I could never hate you. I promise.”  
  
James sits up straighter and wipes a hand across his face. Jeremy expects him to look down at his hands, or at Fusker sitting - confused, his tail twitching wildly - in the open doorway, but he looks right at Jeremy and takes a deep breath. “He said that – that you meant more to me than he did, and he couldn’t live like that.”  
  
“You mean  _Top Gear_?”  _That has to be what he means. Doesn’t it?_  
  
James shakes his head quickly. “He means you, Jez. And he’s right. I couldn’t – I couldn’t fight him on that.”  
  
He gets up from the chair and watches James’ head drop in resignation. But he doesn’t leave the room. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed, near James’ knees. “James?”  
  
James looks up at him through his eyelashes. Jeremy cannot remember a time he’s wanted so badly to hug someone.  
  
“Slow, it’s….” He searches his thick, addlebrained skull for the right words and comes up empty. As usual. “I’m not mad.”  
  
James’ hands rub absently at his shirtsleeves as he nods, a long sigh blowing between his lips. “But you’re not – you don’t….”  
  
“I….” He pauses, and James’ lips immediately draw together in a tight line. Resigned. “Shit. I need to say this the right way. Just…” he tugs at his hair, “just give me a minute.”  
  
His mind is more blank than any bout of writer’s block, so he decides to open his heart and speak from there. “I adore you, James. I really do. You and Richard are…I don’t know what I would do without the two of you in my life. I don’t think I could bear to find out."  _Please don’t make me find out._  
  
“But – but I’m not interested in men. And – and I’m married. I – I….” He scrubs at his forehead and curses himself for inability to say this without stammering. “I can’t be what you want. And I am so sorry about that. I truly am.”  
  
James’ bottom lip is pinched tightly between his teeth as he nods. “Yeah, I – yeah, that’s what I thought. I understand. It’s – it’s fine. Really.”  
  
They’re both quiet for a moment, until finally Jeremy breathes, “I don’t want this to change us. Or push us apart. Can we do that?”  
  
“I don’t know, Jezza. I hope so.”  
  
Jeremy can’t handle it anymore and pulls James closer, wrapping his arms around the other man’s shoulders. James sighs, the warm breath tickling Jeremy’s neck, before digging his chin into Jeremy’s shoulder and resting his hands lightly on his back, not even allowing himself to enjoy Jeremy's embrace. “We can, May. We can.”  
  
With a final squeeze, Jeremy pulls back and brushes James’ hair away from his clammy skin. “Drink that all,” he says, nodding toward the glass on the nightstand. He gets up quickly, murmuring, “See you in the morning, Slow,” as he hurries out of the room, his eyes welling up.  
  
He uses the downstairs shower, but not because he particularly wants to. He only wants to be able to cry where James can’t hear him.

 

4.  
Due to scheduling issues, James arrives on location two days into a five-day shoot. Footage has been great – if filming carries on as it’s been, Jeremy knows this will be one of their best films yet – but nothing else has gone according to plan. Wilman’s permanently on edge, constantly playing peacemaker to local law enforcement, kowtowing to hotel management, pleading for just 30 minutes more of road closure.  
  
When James finally trudges into the hotel lobby at 9:00 p.m. local time, hair matted and eyes bloodshot, none of Andy’s begging can produce an unoccupied room. They join the others at the hotel bar to let Andy think on it, and to let James get some beer into his parched system.  
  
“Right,” Wilman says after awhile. “They’ve got another room for us for the rest of the week, but James, tonight you’re rooming with Lewis.”  
  
From the next table over, Jeremy can hear most of what Lewis mumbles under his breath to the cameraman standing next to him, who snorts in response. Jeremy looks up from his beer, finds James a few feet away, head down, a slight blush creeping up his neck, and knows he’s heard, too.  
  
Jeremy swallows the rest of his drink in one go, gets up on legs that are less steady than he’d been expecting, and walks to the bar.  
  
He orders another then leans in toward his friend. “Andy,” he says quietly. “Put James with me.”  
  
Andy looks up from the papers spread out on the bar, brow furrowed in confusion, his left eye twitching the way it does when he’s too stressed and has too much caffeine in his system. “Why?”  
  
Jeremy shrugs.  
  
“The two of you have been arguing all bloody week. I need a reason if I’m going to risk the inevitable sulking from both of you tomorrow.”  
  
“I heard Lewis bitching. About having to share with him.”  
  
Andy lets out a slow breath. “Anything I need to….”  
  
“He stopped a bit short of homophobic. Otherwise, I’d have punched him in his fucking face, television deadlines be damned.”  
  
“Haven’t you only got the one bed in your room?”  
  
Jeremy nods. “Yeah. And I know it’ll make James uncomfortable, but he’ll be a damn sight more if he has to share with that fucker and his…his thinly veiled bigotry.”  
  
Andy nods wearily, and scratches at the back of his head. “All right. Change of plans,” he says, addressing the direction where James and Lewis are sitting. “James – you’re sharing with Clarkson.”  
  
Jeremy catches Lewis’ eye and gives him the full force of the Clarkson Death Glare – which Francie tells him just makes him look constipated, but of course she isn’t afraid of him anyway – warning him not to say a fucking word. And he doesn’t, just nods in Andy’s direction and turns back to the conversation at the table.  
  
Now for James. Wait, where the fuck is James?  
  
“Wilman?” Jeremy asks. “Where’s Slow gone off to?”  
  
Andy nods at the exit. “Took off as soon as I….”  
  
“Right. You need me anymore?”  
  
“Haven’t needed you for hours, Jez,” Andy answers with a tired smirk. “You just make my job harder. Find James, and the two of you get some rest. Let me know if we need to room switch again. If it comes to it, you can share mine, and we’ll let Captain Cantankerous have yours.”  
  
“It’s not that, Andy, it’s….” It’s James’ secret, is what it is, and Jeremy trails off, mouth snapping shut almost violently.  
  
“It’s that he likes you.” The last time Jeremy remembers hearing such sympathy in his friend’s voice is when he’d called to tell him about Richard’s Vampire accident. “I know. Poor sod.”  
  
As Jeremy’d expected, James is sat just outside the hotel exit on a long, stone bench, puffing away on a cigarette.  
  
“Why’d you do it, Jez?” James asks when the other man drops heavily into the seat beside him.  
  
“I heard what the arsehole said. You shouldn’t have to put up with that.”  
  
James throws his fag on the pavement and stomps on it with more force than necessary. “And you think I can’t handle it? Don’t think I’ve had to handle that and much, much worse my entire life?”  
  
“Of course I – James, look at me.” Jeremy waits for a moment until James lifts his chin and turns his head just a fraction. “Of course I think you can handle it. I know you can. I’ve seen you. But this once, when I can, let me make it easier on you.”  
  
James snorts a bitter laugh out his nose. “Yeah. All right.”  
  
“James?”  
  
“It’s nothing, Clarkson. Do you have the spare keycard?”  
  
“Yeah. Let me….” Jeremy stands and fishes his wallet out of his pocket then digs inside it until he pulls out the extra keycard. “Room 108.”  
  
“See you there later.” And with that, James takes the card out of his hand, gets up and strides away down the pavement.  
  
“James?”  
  
“I said I’d see you later, Clarkson. I’m going for a walk.”  
  
\--  
  
Jeremy is lying under the covers, propped up by three pillows, and talking on the phone with Francie when James finally gets back.  
  
They nod at each other before James finds his bag and ducks into the toilet with it. When he can hear water running from the taps, Jeremy knows James is brushing his teeth. He weighs his options: stay on the phone and give James time to climb into bed and feign sleep, or tell Francie good night now and have it out with James.  
  
“Darling, I have to get to sleep. We have an early morning. All right. I love you, too. Talk to you tomorrow.”  
  
James enters the room just as Jeremy hangs up the phone.  
  
“Right side of the bed all right with you?” he asks, pulling the extra pillow from behind him and replacing it on its correct side of the bed.  
  
“Why – why’d you do it?”  
  
“Why’d I…you mean, Lewis? I already told you.”  
  
“Yeah.” James rubs his hand across his face. “You honestly thought that  **this** ” James gestures at the bed in front of him, “would be easier on me than sharing a room with him? And what about my having to listen to the inevitable crowing he’ll do about you rescuing me?”  
  
“Well, first, he won’t, James. He definitely fucking won’t. Andy and I are going to have a talk with him once we’re back in London. It’s one thing to be uncomfortable having to share a room with a work colleague. It’s another to…. When we’re living in each other’s pockets like we are, we can’t have that. If he doesn’t like it, he can go. I don’t care. He’s not that great a cameraman, and, anyway, he drives a fucking Vectra.”  
  
James tugs absently at the hair at the base of his neck and sits sideways in the hard-backed chair in front of the desk.  
  
“As for the rest of it,” Jeremy continues, “I think this bloody bed is bigger than the tent we shared in the Arctic. What’s the fucking problem?”  
  
“You….” James trails off and swipes his hand across his nose. “Then, I didn’t…. I didn’t feel for you, then, what I do now.”  
  
Jeremy compiles that bit of information in his head. He’d wondered when, exactly, James had fallen for him, but had never asked. He’s still not sure, but now he knows it hadn’t been overnight.  
  
There’s some silence then Jeremy speaks. “James. Get in bed.”  
  
“I can sleep on the floor, Jeremy, I don’t….”  
  
“James!” Finally, James lifts his eyes from where they’d been staring at the carpet and looks at Jeremy. “Answer one question for me.”  
  
Jeremy takes his silence as assent. “Would you ever do anything to me that you knew I didn’t want?”  
  
James blinks quickly and sits straighter in his seat. “Of course I wouldn’t.”  
  
“Exactly. That’s all I care about. I trust you, and the rest of it’s just shit. All right?”  
  
James nods uncertainly.  
  
“Finally. Now get in the fucking bed so I maybe get a couple hours sleep before we have to be at the track, so I won’t have to mainline caffeine all morning.”  
  
James lifts the covers and slides in, pulling them up to his neck and rolling onto his side away from Jeremy. He’s nearly hovering on the edge, but at least he’s on the sodding mattress. “That’s a lie, Clarkson. You can’t function without a caffeine drip.”  
  
“There’s always the hope.”  
  
“I – I’ll try not to snore.”  
  
Jeremy reaches up and clicks off the lamp next to him. He can just make out the shape of James next to him from the light coming in around the curtain. “I’m sort of used to it, now,” he says with a yawn. “Night, May.”  
  
“Night, Clarkson.”  
  
\--  
  
A car alarm is what wakes Jeremy in the middle of the night. But it’s not until he attempts to roll over and go back to sleep that he realizes the large span of empty bed that had been between him and James when they turned out the lights is no longer there.  
  
James is pressed tightly against him, as if huddled for warmth, his arm draped across Jeremy’s chest. Half-asleep, Jeremy thinks it’s kind of nice, being this close to James, so used to his attempts at affection being stonewalled.  
  
He lies that way for a while, listening to James’ light, even snores, enjoying how nice – if admittedly awkward – it feels to lie this close to someone. He and Francie rarely do anymore; different sleep schedules mean Jeremy slides into bed well after his wife falls asleep, and he can’t bear to let his frequent insomnia disturb her.  
  
Jeremy ducks his head and presses his face to his mate’s hair, wishing there were a way he and May could be closer. Not – not like  **that** , but more like he and Richard are – endearment disguised as playful fighting – or even more like James and Richard are – intimate discussions while restoring an old junker, or weekend trips to the Hammond family farm.  
  
 _What am I going to do with you, Slow?_  he asks himself, and not for the first time. Not hardly.  
  
He’s contemplating whether he should try extricating himself without waking James, but he’s loathe to do so. And that’s something he’d rather not think too much about. The only other plan is to just fall back asleep and hope James either moves away naturally or wakes first and disengages himself from Jeremy. He knows James will never mention it. In the morning, he’ll try and avoid Jeremy’s eye, but Jeremy’s well practiced at teasing James out of his moods, and by lunch they’ll be nearly back to normal.  
  
But then James shifts, rolls toward Jeremy. And Jeremy discovers that not all of James is asleep. One part of him is absolutely, certainly awake. And very much interested in their impromptu cuddle session.  
  
Later, Jeremy will realize how immature and cowardly and stupidly reckless he was, especially considering the sometimes fragile relationship he and James share. But he can’t help it. He survived public school, and that trip in his mid-twenties to a gay nightclub on a dare, and sodding Louie Spence, all without ever being up close and personal with another man’s erection.  
  
He panics, pushing James away with some force. Not enough to hurt – even at his worst, he couldn’t hurt James, not physically at least – but it’s more than enough to wake him. More than enough than is necessary to put a bit of space between them.  
  
“What – what the fuck? Jeremy?” James asks, and it’s a toss-up to whether he sounds more confused or angry.  
  
Jeremy almost lashes out, almost lets words spew from his mouth that will break him and James irreparably, will shrink the already small circle of people James trusts to, well, Fusker and Hammond, maybe. If Hammond even still makes the cut.  
  
He has just enough self-awareness to recognize himself as the problem, not James, and he uses the time it takes to switch the table lamp back on to try calming himself. It doesn’t really work, but it may be enough to keep James from hating him. “You – I’m sorry, James,” he finally says, heart still pounding loudly in his chest. “I – I woke up and, and, and I didn’t know where I was for a second, couldn’t remember who you were, and why we were….”  
  
“And you decided to shove me off like it’s a fucking pub brawl?”  
  
Jeremy looks at James, then, sees the anxiety mingled with the annoyance, and knows he’s now twigged to his own erection and drawn the dots and is wondering whether Jeremy has as well.  
  
And now that Jeremy’s thought that, his eyes flick there involuntarily. There’s nothing he can see beneath two layers of bedding, but his glance doesn’t go unnoticed.  
  
“I – Jeremy, it’s not – I didn’t mean….” James is wide-eyed with fear, arms curled in against his chest as if trying to disappear. Jeremy wants to pull him in close, assure him they’re okay, but he can’t. Even if James would let him – and he wouldn’t – Jeremy’s own body can’t handle the confusion.  
  
Jeremy holds out his hand, palm out, and, blessedly, James stops talking, though the flush on his face seems to darken. “It’s – it’s fine. It happens.” He bites his lip to stop from saying, “I know it didn’t mean anything,” because he doesn’t want to put James in the position of telling what they both know is a lie. “Let’s go back to sleep, all right?”  
  
James opens his mouth before any words have arrived at the front of his brain and just sits there, mouth hanging open, before finally snapping it shut.  
  
“Now stay on your own side this time,” Jeremy admonishes as they both lie back down, hoping James will hear the smile in his voice. Taking the piss is the only way he knows to assure James that everything will be okay.  
  
“Fuck off, Clarkson,” James murmurs. There’s a strangeness to James’ voice that Jeremy puts off to the weirdness of the entire situation, until the fourth time James squirms and fluffs his pillow.  
  
“James,” he groans quietly.  
  
“Sorry, I – I can’t sleep.”  
  
“Well, it has only been about five minutes, Slow.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Jeremy is in the middle of a nice daydream involving him and Kristen Scott Thomas in a Bugatti Veyron when suddenly it gets away from him a bit and goes all confusing and the car’s broken down, and the garage sends James May – of all people - out to fix it, and then it hits him. He sits up suddenly. “You can’t sleep because you’re still fucking hard! Ja-ames!”  
  
“I – I was hoping it’d just go away. Or – or I’d take care of it. In a bit.”  
  
“Here?! Ew, James!”  
  
“No, not here, you imbecile. I was going to wait for you to fall asleep, then visit the bog.”  
  
“May, I – I can’t…. Shower or something, anything, just….”  
  
“All right….”  
  
James does use the shower – and it takes all Jeremy’s willpower not to think about how short his shower is, and whether that means his staying power is just that bad, or whether his hands are just that talented, or maybe he just used cold water, or maybe… _No, fucking stop it, Jeremy._  
  
He’s never claimed to have a lot of willpower.  
  
“Jeremy,” James whispers when he crawls back into bed.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I’m sorry. I ----”  
  
“No. We’ll talk about it in the morning if we must, but for now shut up and sleep.”  
  
-  
  
“About last night….”  
  
“God, James! When I said we’d talk about it in the morning if we absolutely had to, that was your cue to ignore it forever, man!”  
  
James looks up from the shoe he’s tying. Jeremy’s got off to a slow start this morning, and he’s still searching for his toothbrush.  
  
“Imagine – Jeremy, imagine if Andy made you share a bed with Keira Knightly. And, no, before you start, this is not a fantasy, and there is no way she’s interested in you.”  
  
“Of course she’d be interested in me,” Jeremy mumbles, his face buried in his toiletry bag.  
  
They both know that not even Jeremy believes that, so James doesn’t dignify it with a response, just continues, “Think about how hard – how  **difficult** ,” he amends, before Jeremy’s even has a chance to smirk or think rude things, “that’d be for you.”  
  
Jeremy looks up, brow furrowed. “I don’t – James, I don’t….” It’s early, and James’ metaphors make no sense at the best of times.  
  
James sighs, and looks briefly at the floor. “ **You’re**  my Keira Knightley.” It might be a sweet sentiment, but James ruins it by muttering, “Spanner,” under his breath.  
  
“I’m sorry, but if one of us is a spanner in this situation, it’s the one who equates me to Keira Knightley.”  
  
James smiles softly, shyly, and Jeremy isn’t attracted to men, but it’s still one of the most beautiful smiles he’s ever seen. Not that he’d ever tell James that.  
  
Then James stands, and the spell is broken, and Jeremy knows James will never bring any of this up again. “I’ll see you at breakfast, Clarkson.”  
  
  
  
5.  
  
“I’m going to be late,” James mutters as he heads down the hallway. He’s supposed to meet Andy and the crew at the track in 30 minutes, and there’s no way he’ll get there in time. And he’s 90% sure the Panda’s almost out of petrol, which means he’ll be even further behind, and…. “Shit,” he murmurs just as his foot hits the second stair, “forgot my wallet.”  
  
He stops suddenly to turn around and go back upstairs, and – fuck, he knew this was going to happen someday: spending money on old motorbikes or new Ferraris or a used airplane instead of stair carpeting would one day be his downfall.  
  
There are three distinct thuds, a muted, pained curse, and then the woosh of air leaving his lungs when he finally hits the floor.  
  
He lies, stunned, for a moment, and takes stock of his body. It hurts, all of it, but it’s not until he tries to move that he nearly passes out.  _Oh, god._  
  
James isn’t sure if his ribs are cracked, or broken, or just very thoroughly bruised, but something is definitely wrong. It hurts to breathe, hurts even more to move, but he knows he needs help.  
  
Shifting slightly, he can manage to get his mobile out of his pocket – finally his Twitter habit has come in useful – and he brings it up to his face with shaking hands to consider his options. If he dials 999 and it’s nothing serious, he’ll never live it down. Besides, if he can’t get to the door, they’ll have to break it down. And they’ll probably track mud on the carpet.  
  
Someone who has a key to his house, then. That narrows it down considerably. His parents and siblings each have one, but he couldn’t stand the pain for as long as it would take them to arrive. Richard’s most definitely at home in his castle and would take even longer. He’s not sure whether Simmy still has a key, and when he tries to remember, it just makes the pounding in his head more painful.  
  
Jeremy it is then.  
  
“Please be at the flat,” he whispers as he listens to the dial tone.  
  
“May,” that big, booming voice finally answers, just as James is getting ready to hang up and try Sim. He nearly cries in relief. “I was just going to call you.”  
  
“Je – Jeremy,” he gasps.  
  
“James? Are you okay?”  
  
“…hurts. Fell – fell down the stairs.”  
  
James can hear the quaver in Jeremy’s voice as he answers, “Do you need an ambulance? I’m at the office; I can be there in a few minutes.”  
  
“No ambulance, I don’t think…jus – just need,” James swallows, tries to catch his breath. On the other end of the line, he can hear panting, and he realizes it’s Jeremy, hurrying to get to his car. “M’ribs. Hurts, Jez.” The words slip out unbidden. If he weren’t in so much pain, he’d be embarrassed at admitting so much weakness.  
  
“M’in the car now, James. Give me a second to put on the hands-free…. All right. Can you hear me?” There’s the sound of Jeremy’s car starting in the background, and James has never been so happy to hear that damn CLK.  
  
“I’m here, Jez.”  
  
“Good. Good. Can you keep talking to me? I know it hurts, but I need to know you’re okay.”  
  
“Yeah. Need – need to call Andy. Tell ‘im, I….” James coughs suddenly and nearly blacks out from the pain, his insides on fire. Then he hears Jeremy’s voice, saying his name, sounding so far away….  
  
“Dropped – dropped the phone,” he mutters to himself. He reaches blindly at his side until he finally finds it. “M’back.”  
  
Jeremy finally stops repeating his name, instead letting loose a laugh that sounds more like he’s choking. “I’ll call Andy and let him know you won’t be there, as soon as I get you in the car.”  
  
It seems like forever, but it’s probably only about ten minutes – which means Jeremy either got very lucky or broke several traffic laws – before James can hear the key in the lock and then the door opening.  
  
“James!”  
  
“Bottom of the stairs,” James answers in his loudest voice. It isn’t very loud.  
  
He’s struggling to sit up when Jeremy enters his field of vision. “Stay still,” Jeremy quietly but urgently. He picks up James’ phone, disconnects the call and drops it into his coat pocket. “Where d’you hurt?”  
  
James closes his eyes, feels a flush wash over his face. Somehow a caring Jeremy makes this even more embarrassing than if he’d taken the piss. “Ribs, mostly. I’m sore all over, but I think that’s just bruises.”  
  
“I’m going to help you up and see if we can get you into the car. All right?”  
  
James nods but still doesn’t open his eyes.  
  
“James? Come on. Look at me.”  
  
With a sigh, James opens his eyes. Jeremy is blurry, and James doesn’t stop to think about what that means.  
  
“Hey, come on, it’s all right.” Jeremy rests a careful hand on his shoulder and rubs gently with his thumb. “Remember when I was nearly raped by the gear stick in my lorry and hurt my leg?”  
  
James snorts softly and blinks several times in rapid succession until Jeremy comes back into focus. “Thank you for coming, Jez.”  
  
“Any time, mate. Any time.”  
  
Getting James off the floor and to Jeremy’s Mercedes is a long, arduous, painful process, one that James would prefer to never think about again. But he knows he’ll never forget it: the sharp pain every time he breathed; the ache in his sides no matter how gently Jeremy touched him; the slow, careful way Jeremy helped him up and let James lean on him; and the steady, quiet encouragement as they trudged slowly to the car.  
  
And he’ll certainly never forget the way Jeremy cupped his cheek after he was buckled in and just looked at him for a long moment before smiling softly and murmuring, “What am I going to do with you, you ridiculous man?” then clapping him so very carefully on the shoulder.  
  
\--  
  
It’s hours before James gets out of A&E and back to his house, hospital-strength Ibuprofen in his system and a prescription bag of something better in Jeremy’s hand. He aches, he’s cranky, and he’s covered in hospital stink.  
  
“Jeremy,” he says quietly as he shrugs carefully out of his jacket, “I can’t thank you enough. Can I buy you a curry, as a thank you? Er, if you don’t have to be back home, I mean? Francie must be expecting you by now.”  
  
There’s a flash of something behind Jeremy’s eyes before he smiles tiredly and toes his shoes off. “Curry sounds great.”  
  
James leaves the question on the tip of his tongue, certain that Jeremy would say something if he wanted to talk about it, and instead asks, “Do you mind ordering? I want a bath.”  
  
His mobile already in hand, Jeremy waves him in the direction of the bath. “Don’t drown, Slow.”  
  
\--  
  
The bath feels glorious, hot water soothing his sore muscles, a thick lather of soap washing away the stench and filth. His hair lies damp and stringy against his face, and he considers tackling it, but even the thought of lifting his hands toward his head makes his ribs twinge.  
  
“Shit,” he utters.  
  
“James?” Jeremy’s voice thunders from the hallway. “All right in there?”  
  
“Why are you hovering in the hall, Clarkson?”  
  
There’s a pause before Jeremy answers, “I’m not,” he denies. “James, I’m coming in.” Ignoring James’ protests, the door swings open and Jeremy towers above him.  
  
“Oi!” James drapes his arm over his gentleman’s reception area at the same time that Jeremy comments that James hadn’t been kidding about the bruises. “Hand me a towel at least, you oaf. Now close your eyes until I’m covered.”  
  
“You don’t have anything I’ve never seen, May.” But Jeremy closes his eyes anyway.  
  
“Sod off, Clarkson,” James mutters as he covers himself. “All right.”  
  
“Curry’s here,” Jeremy says as he opens his eyes. “You were taking a while; wanted to make sure you were still breathing.”  
  
“Yeah. Just – just about to wash my hair.”  
  
Leaning his shoulder against the wall, Jeremy crosses his arms over his chest. “Get on with it then.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Not with you standing there.”  
  
“Because you can’t.”  
  
“I certainly can.”  
  
“I’ll be right back.” And with that, Jeremy disappears from view. When he returns, he has a pitcher in his hand.  
  
“What - ?”  
  
Without looking at James, Jeremy kneels in front of the bathtub and turns on the taps, filling the pitcher with water. “This is how I used to wash the kids’ hair,” he mutters. “Lean your head back a bit.”  
  
“Jeremy….”  
  
“James, listen. You’re in pain. You want your hair washed. You can either suffer and do a half-arsed job…or, you can just let me do it. I – I won’t…I won’t take the piss. I promise. It won’t leave this room.”  
  
It’s not what he’s worried about – well, to be honest, it is a little bit – but James knows he doesn’t have much choice. He sighs. “All right, Clarkson.”  
  
He’s certainly many years out of practice, but it’s obvious Jeremy really does know what he’s doing. James’ sigh of relief at finally being clean is buried in the sound of water poured over his hair, and he manages to bite back a whimper of bliss while Jeremy massages in the shampoo.  
  
He’s thankful for the towel covering his lap; he can’t control the erection that’s forming as those long fingers rake through his hair. Taking a glance at the other man, James is relieved to see that he’s focused solely on James’ hair. Then their eyes meet and, grinning, Jeremy waggles his bushy eyebrows.  
  
“Ow, Clarkson. Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
Still smiling, Jeremy reaches for the pitcher, his eyes panning unconsciously across James’ body. It’s obvious the second he notices the way the towel is tenting by the slight pause and flush that creeps up his neck, but he ignores it and turns on the taps.  
  
“Jezza, I….”  
  
Jeremy turns off the water. “It’s all right,” he says, huffing a bitter-sounding laugh out his nose. “It’s nice to know there’s someone left I can still have that effect on.”  
  
“Jez?”  
  
Jeremy dismisses the unspoken question with a shake of his head and gestures for James to lean back again. Then, shielding James’ face, he proceeds to rinse James’ hair, repeating the action until it’s free of shampoo.  
  
“All done. Can – do you need help getting out of the bath?”  
  
“I….” It would probably be the safest choice, but when his cock twitches at the thought, he answers, “Just stand there? In case?”  
  
Jeremy dutifully closes his eyes and waits.  
  
\--  
  
His curry is waiting for him at the kitchen table, as well as two pills and a glass of water. “I don’t need these, Clarkson. I’m fine.”  
  
“Bollocks,” Jeremy mumbles through a mouthful of his supper. “May, don’t try to tough out the pain. You heard your doctor: big, deep breaths every hour. If you don’t keep the pain at a minimum, you can’t breathe properly – and you wind up in hospital with pneumonia. Or worse. Suffering through the pain isn’t going to help anyone, least of all you.”  
  
“It doesn’t hurt that much anymore,” he protests, lifting his fork up to his mouth. "The Ibuprofen is helping."  
  
“I heard you cursing as you tried to pull that t-shirt over your head. Swallow ‘em.”  
  
\--  
  
The meds help, but they also make him tired. Halfway through the film Jeremy’s put on, he shifts in his seat, a pained grunt spilling from his lips.  
  
“Lie down, Slow,” Jeremy offers, easing himself off the couch and onto the floor in front of it.  
  
“You didn’t have to move.”  
  
“I’m fine. Get comfortable. Can I bring you anything?”  
  
James shakes his head and does his best to find a comfortable position. After several moments, he sighs in frustration. “As good as it’s going to get, I think.”  
  
Jeremy smiles sadly and they both turn their attention back to the movie.  
  
“Franice and I have split up.” Neither of them has spoken in so long, and Jeremy’s voice is so quiet, so sad, that James almost asks him to repeat himself.  
  
“Christ, Jez, I’m sorry.” And he is, terribly. He's wanted Jeremy, but he's never wanted this.  
  
“I’d been about to phone you earlier, when you…. Wanted to see if I could come over. I know I’m there by myself all the time, James, but…I don’t know. The flat just seemed so damn lonely today.”  
  
“Jez…. Fuck, I really don’t know what to say, mate.” Jeremy is merely inches from James’ hand, and it’s never been easier to close the distance and rest his hand on the nape of his neck, brushing his thumb soothingly along the collar of his shirt.  
  
“There’s nothing  _to_  say, really. We love each other – she’s still my best friend – but we haven’t been  _in love_  for…shit, not for years. We just – we decided….” Jeremy lets out a slow breath then breathes in again, deeply. “We decided there’s still time. Time for us to try being happy with someone else.”  
  
“Is there…” James begins, then clears his throat when his words catch. “Is there someone else?”  
  
Jeremy tilts his head back against James’ hand, and James squeezes. “I’m honestly not sure.” He sighs and sits back up, finally turning toward James. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”  
  
The women they know swim through James’ mind. Sophia? Or maybe Katie? He doesn’t think so, thinks they’re both too young. But, knowing Jeremy’s taste, age difference doesn’t seem to be a problem, and James knows all too well how unexpectedly charming the other man can be.  
  
But it’s probably neither of them. Jeremy must know hundreds of women: beautiful, successful women that James has never met.  
  
He hopes whoever she is, she’ll make Jeremy happy. He brushes a too-long curl behind his friend’s ear and tells him so and is rewarded with a soft, crooked smile.  
  
Then Jeremy swallows loudly and sighs and turns back toward the television.  
  
Tired, but reluctant to leave Jeremy, James closes his eyes and is eventually lulled to sleep by the sounds of Jeremy’s steady breathing and erratic gunfire from the television.  
  
The feeling of a warm, fluffy blanket being draped over his body and pulled carefully over his shoulders draws him toward wakefulness. “Mmm,” he murmurs sleepily, pressing his face into the warmth, “love you, Jez.”  
  
The hands still holding the blanket freeze in place.  
  
“Shit,” James mutters, opening his eyes, completely awake now. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t….”  
  
“It’s fine, James,” Jeremy interrupts. He’s knelt in front of James, his face shadowed and inscrutable in the muted light of the room. “Actually, it’s – it’s nice to hear. That’s probably unfair of me, but….”  
  
“No, Jez.”  
  
Jeremy nods once then shifts slightly, allowing the light from the other room to reveal his awkward, honest smile. “Don’t think I’m not calling your doctor in the morning, though.”  
  
“Eh?”  
  
“He’s clearly sent you back all wrong,” Jeremy teases.  
  
James snorts softly. “Told you I didn’t want to take the pain meds.” He clears his throat. “Unless you were referring to the inexplicable reasons I like you, and I don’t think he can be blamed for that.”  
  
“I assume you were dropped on your head when you were a small child.”  
  
“Good bet, that.”  
  
Jeremy chuckles quietly. “Are you sleeping here?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ve finally got comfortable. Well, as much as I can.”  
  
“All right. Need anything before I head to bed?”  
  
James shakes his head.  
  
“All right. Sweet dreams, Slow.” He moves to get up, but after a hesitation, Jeremy leans down and presses a kiss to James’ forehead. “Love you, too, mate.”  
  
 _Mate._  That one word changes the meaning of the entire sentence, but it can’t change the fact that it’s still one of the best thing’s he’s ever heard.  
  
  
#1  
  
Jeremy spends a lot of time at James’ in the months following his separation from Francie, becoming a nearly-weekly addition to James’ spare room, the far-right couch cushion eventually baring a decidedly Jeremy-shaped indentation.  
  
On one of these weekends, they’re putting together a Scalextric track on the dining room floor when James’ mobile rings.  
  
“Am I speaking to a newly-licensed pilot?” he asks, not even bothering with a greeting. “Congratulations, Michael, I’m chuffed to hear it.”  
  
“Congratulations, Michael,” Jeremy calls out from across the room.  
  
“Jeremy sends his congratulations as well…. I’d love to; I can’t today, though, Jeremy is….”  
  
“Go, James.”  
  
“Just a second, Michael.” James places his hand over the speaker. “What, Jeremy?”  
  
“Go for a ride in his plane. We can race around your dining room table any day.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Of course. I know how hard he worked for it, and how much you helped him.”  
  
“All right…. Michael? Four, you said? I’ll see you then.” James disconnects the call and slides the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll only be gone for a couple of hours, Jeremy,” James says as he pushes himself off the floor with a grunt. “He’s not licensed to fly in the dark, yet. You can stay, and we can have supper when I get back. If you want.”  
  
“I could do a roast lamb.”  
  
"You could do a what?"  
  
“I have a recipe. I could make that while you’re out.” Jeremy’s head is bowed, his focus still on the track in front of him. “You could invite Michael to join us.”  
  
“I - I didn't buy any lamb. Actually, I'm not certain I've ever.”  
  
"All right," Jeremy continues, unfazed, still peering at the track over the top of his glasses. "I'll think of something else."  
  
"Right. Anyway, Jeremy?"  
  
The other man lifts his head. “Hmm?”  
  
“I still consider Michael one of my closest friends,”  _and we still fuck occasionally, which I’ve never told you, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out because – as much as we all like to say you are – you’re actually not stupid, and I’m not very good at lying_ , “and I’m very grateful for that. But we’re not going to get back together. We don’t work that way. You know that, right?”  
  
Jeremy’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “I know.”  
  
“Good. Just, making sure you’re not match-making again. Yeah, I’ll ask him. Thanks.”  
  
\--  
  
“ _You_  cooked this, Jeremy?” Michael asks, looking up from his plate, still chewing. “It’s really good.”  
  
“Your confidence in me is astounding, you arse.”  
  
Michael grins. “I just didn’t know you cooked.”  
  
“Didn’t, really, until the divorce.”  
  
“Oh, shit, I….”  
  
Jeremy smiles. “Don’t apologize. It’s all worked out for the best. All five of us are happier than we were before. Oh, did I tell you, James? Francie’s got herself a boyfriend.”  
  
“Good for her.” The subject of Jeremy dating is one James doesn’t touch – Clarkson gets enough of that from Hammond, and a small part of James frets over the idea of someday losing the closeness that has developed between them the past few months.  
  
But he has no such qualms about Michael’s love life.  
  
“Speaking of boyfriends,” he begins, turning his attention to his ex with a teasing grin. “Is something going on with you and Rhys – Rhys is the bloke who looks after Michael’s plane,” he explains to Jeremy.  
  
Michael nearly chokes on a piece of carrot. “Oh, god. You noticed that.”  
  
“It was a little hard not to notice. He clearly fancies you.”  
  
“I know. And god is he gorgeous. But I couldn’t.”  
  
“Why not? He’s funny. Seems smart, too.”  
  
“He is both of those things. He’s also straight.”  
  
From across the table, Jeremy asks, “Wait, I thought James said he fancies you?”  
  
“He does, but he’s only ever been with women before.”  
  
Jeremy frowns and sets down his fork. “So now’s your chance to show him the ropes? I – I don’t get why there’s a problem. I mean, if I turned a lesbian straight….” He raises his eyebrows as if to say, ‘see what I mean?’  
  
James sighs softly and tugs on his hair. “It’s not like that, though, Jezza. It’s hard to explain, if you don’t – if you don’t have the background.”  
  
“I couldn’t have a relationship with someone like that,” Michael adds. “A night of meaningless sex, sure, but not a relationship.”  
  
Jeremy seems to ignore Michael, focusing instead on James’ last sentence. “You mean you can’t explain it to me because I don’t like cock.” James knows the sarcasm is just a bulwark surrounding the hurt and confusion Jeremy is actually feeling, but it stings nonetheless.  
  
“A little bit, Jeremy,” Michael answers for James. “Yeah. Sorry, mate.”  
  
“Let me get this straight. And, yes, in case you were wondering: pun definitely intended. There is a man you’re interested in, who’s also interested in you. And you won’t even entertain the possibility of happiness with that man, just because his previous partners have been missing a Y chromosome?”  
  
Michael opens his mouth to respond, but Jeremy turns his gaze to James. “Do you have this same rule, James?”  
  
James shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it a rule, and I’ve never had to make the decision before. But, no, I don’t think I could date a man who hadn’t been with at least one other bloke before me. I don’t think I could even do the ‘night of meaningless sex.’ I’m too old to show someone the ropes. And I think I’d spend all of my time waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to decide he’s too old for experimentation, that he wants to find a nice woman and settle down.”  
  
“Right, I….” Jeremy sighs and runs his hand over the top of his head. “I - I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t understand. I – I can’t…. I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I, er, I think I’m going to head home. It’s getting late.” He stands and crosses the room in three long strides, stopping in the doorway. “Michael, it was nice seeing you again. James, I’ll see you at Dunsfold on Wednesday.”  
  
James and Michael stare at each other in silence until they hear the front door close.  
  
“What was that about?” Michael asks, finally.  
  
“It’s hit him that Francie’s found someone that makes her happy, and he hasn’t? I honestly don’t know.”  
  
\--  
  
Jeremy doesn’t mention their conversation, or his leaving early, and James is happy to follow his lead. He’ll support Jeremy as best he can, but he’s also more than happy to let problems resolve themselves. When Jeremy invites Michael to another Top Gear pub night, he braces himself for a continuation of the discussion, but it’s never brought up. And then there’s a darts game happening in the back – and James is that perfect level of tipsy where he’s actually pretty good – so he leaves them at a table with Hammond to go play.  
  
An hour later, when he’s definitely had too much beer and even hitting the board is becoming a challenge, he cries off and goes looking for his mates.  
  
“Hammond’s gone home,” Andy says. “And I think Jeremy and Michael are outside having a fag.”  
  
“Ta.”  
  
The east side of the building – which James had been calling the southwest side for years until Richard finally got out a map and proved him wrong – is where they usually smoke, but a group of drunk men in their 20s are the only ones to be found there.  
  
When the wind’s blowing the wrong direction and they’re sick of smoke blowing in their faces, they sometimes smoke around back, so James heads around the corner.  
  
There’s no one smoking, but it’s not empty. Two men – one considerably larger than the other – are pressed together, the smaller one’s back against the brick wall. The larger man has his fingers shoved in the other man’s hair, his knee pressed between his thighs and up against his crotch, and looks to be kissing a path up his neck.  
  
James ducks his head, embarrassed to spy – even accidentally on some idiots stupid enough to neck in public – on another couple, and turns to creep quietly away. Later, he’ll blame the darkness and the implausibility of the situation for his ignorance, but it really isn’t until he hears Michael’s voice gasp, “Jesus, Jez,” that he twigs to what is happening.  
  
“Oh, god.” He can’t stop himself saying the words, wishes he could just go home silently and pretend he never saw any of it. But it’s too late.  
  
“Shit.” That’s Jeremy, and James watches just long enough to see him push himself away from Michael before he turns on his heel and strides quickly for home.  
  
“James! Wait…. No, Michael. I’ll take care of it.” Anything else he says to Michael is lost as James rounds the corner.  
  
“James! Fuck, James, let me explain.”  
  
James ducks his head and shoves his hands in his pockets and continues walking. He can hear Jeremy behind him, cursing his dicky hip and his sore back as he tries to catch James. He does, finally, at the pavement in front of James’.  
  
“Can I come in?” Jeremy pants, bent in half with his hands on his knees, red in the face. “Let me explain. Please, James.”  
  
James has spent the entire walk blinking away tears, but he’s not sure how long that will last if he has to listen to Jeremy say….  _Oh, god._  He should just get it over with.  
  
James swallows and wipes the back of his hand across his nose. “Fine. Yeah.”  
  
Mostly as an attempt to calm himself, James makes them both a large mug of tea. Jeremy is waiting at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him.  
  
“It’s not what it looked like, James.”  
  
James can’t help but snort at the hackneyed line. “You’re a writer, Clarkson, you couldn’t come up with a better phrase than that? It looked like you were snogging my former boyfriend behind the pub. Was it something other than that?”  
  
“No, James, but…. Shit, I’m sorry.”  
  
James takes a sip from his mug. “I’m upset, but I’m not mad. You can’t help who you’re interested in. I should know that better than anyone. I just – I just wish you’d gone somewhere else, where I didn’t have to find you.”  
  
“I know. That was…that was disrespectful of us. And fucking stupid.”  
  
James can’t help but nod his head in agreement. “I don’t – I don’t understand, Jeremy. He said himself he’d fuck a straight man, but not….” He looks down at the mug held between his hands, runs his finger around the rim. “This was just going to be a one off, right? Why – I’ve seen the way women act around you. Certainly you could find one willing to spend the night with you. Probably two or three from the pub tonight. Why Michael?”  
  
“Remember when Francie and I split up, and you asked me if there was someone else? And I said I’d let you know when I figured it out?”  
  
James tentatively lifts his head. “I remember.”  
  
“It – it wasn’t a woman that I…. You two said, you needed a man to have experience being with other men before you’d…. I needed to make sure, before I said anything. I told Michael tonight, and – well, and he offered. It wouldn’t have meant anything,” he adds, hurriedly, as if that made any difference.  
  
Suddenly, the room is too warm, too small, James’ heart beating too quickly, too loudly. He wants to grab Jeremy by the lapels and shout at him.  _Why couldn’t it be me?! If you had to fall for another man, why not me?! You said you loved me, why not…?_  
  
But he doesn’t shout, and he doesn’t grab the other man. He only says, quietly, and sincerely, “I’m glad, if you felt you had to, that it was Michael and not some bloke you’d just met. He’s a good guy; he wouldn’t hurt you.”  
  
Jeremy frowns and looks worried. “James? Is that all you have to say?”  
  
“No. Who – who is it?”  
  
“Who is…? I’m not following you.”  
  
Arms crossed over his chest, James answers softly, “Who is this bloke? The 'someone else?'”  
  
“James….” Jeremy trails off then pushes himself up from the table. “I’m going to need your help in a few minutes,” he murmurs as he drops to his knees next to James’ chair.  
  
“What are you…?”  
  
“You’re serious, aren’t you? Who am I kidding, of course you are. James, you incredibly stupid man, it’s you. You’re the man I think – I  _know_  - I could be happy with.”  
  
“Jez? I don’t…?”  
  
“For one of the smartest people I know, you really can be a bit of a plonker. Let me spell it out for you, all right?” James’ thigh is warm where Jeremy lays his large hand just above the knee and squeezes. “I love you. And, that night, when you told me you loved me, and I kissed your forehead…I wanted to kiss you properly. But I had to be sure, first. I couldn’t tease you like that.”  
  
James swallows and lays his hand over Jeremy’s. Cautiously, like he’s expecting it to disappear, which he half is. “And are you? Sure? Did kissing Michael help convince you?”  
  
Jeremy wrinkles his nose in disgust. “No. It was weird. It was – it was Michael, and I’ve known him since we were twelve years old, and he’d just had sex with you three weeks ago.”  
  
James can’t help but blush. “So you did know about that. I thought so.” Before Jeremy can respond, he adds, with a small smile, “And again the week after that.”  
  
Jeremy chuckles and shakes his head. “Of course I knew. I may have gone to bed before he left, but I was across the hall when you ‘said your good-byes.’ And you’re not as quiet as you probably think.”  
  
James’ blush deepens, and not only because he’s embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Jez.”  
  
The hand on James’ leg squeezes again. “My fault for not saying anything. Anyway, my point was that kissing him was weird, but he was never the one I was interested in anyway. I’m not interested in men. I’m interested in  **James May**.”  
  
James is tempted to make a joke at his own expense, but he can’t help but reach out and lay his fingertips along Jeremy’s jaw and brush his thumb against the unshaven cheek. “But you are sure now?”  
  
“How about I show you?”  
  
James is nodding even as he’s leaning down, closing the distance between them. The lips that press against his are warm, surprisingly soft, and gentle. There’s no hesitation in Jeremy’s kiss, nor a desire to take control. He lets James lead, but follows willingly, eagerly. His hand curls in James’ hair, and James can’t help but moan.  
  
Jeremy smiles against his lips and pulls back, then kisses him again, lightly. “Yeah. That sound. That’s the one you think is quieter than it is.”  
  
One corner of James’ mouth lifts in a smile. Then, “Wait. Jeremy Clarkson, did you have a wank in my guest bed? Whilst you listened to me having sex?”  
  
Grinning, Jeremy presses his hand against James’ side until he turns in his chair, allowing Jeremy to fall between his knees. As his hands rub softly against James’ back, he asks, “Which part annoys you more? My eavesdropping – unintentionally, mind – on your personal time, or my messing up your bedding? I did wash the sheets.”  
  
James smoothes a hand along Jeremy’s collar bone as he comes to a realization. “You washed them after several nights. And you made it out like you were just being helpful because you were spending the night so often.” He laughs and kisses the other man again, just because he can. “At least you cleaned up after yourself.”  
  
“That’s what made me sure,” Jeremy says finally.  
  
“Not doing my laundry, certainly. You mean listening to me have sex?”  
  
“No. I mean, a little bit, but no. Being here, around you, close to you, then not,” he clears his throat, “not being able to resist touching myself at night.”  
  
“Jezza.” James cups his hands around Jeremy’s face and leans down, pressing his lips against the top of his head. Then Jeremy leans closer, burying his face in James shirt, clenching his fingers in the fabric at the back, and makes a sound James has never heard from him before. It sounds happy, relieved, grateful.  
  
“Jeremy,” James whispers. “Thank you for being brave.”  
  
Jeremy chuckles, and it’s a pleasant thrum against James’ chest. They stay like that for a long moment until Jeremy says, “James?”  
  
“Yeah, Jez?”  
  
“I don’t think I can move.”  
  
James laughs like he hasn’t in a long time, and – after a moment – Jeremy joins in. “Come on, old man. Let’s get you off the floor.”  
  
“M’not old,” he protests, even as he groans as James helps him up. “I’m just broken in.”  
  
“Broken is right. Just like my old Porsche was.”  
  
“Jaaames!” He shoves at James’ shoulder then leaves his hand there, warm through the cotton.  
  
“I loved that Porsche.”  
  
James can tell from the way Jeremy’s eyes soften that he gets it, completely. Then he looks, almost shyly, at the floor. “What about what you said, about not wanting to date someone who’d never been with a man?”  
  
He sighs and pulls Jeremy close, tucking his chin against his shoulder. “I didn’t mean you, you blithering idiot. I’d take you - god, I’d take you any way I could have you.”  
  
It’s not until Jeremy snorts that he realizes his unintentional double-entendre. “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“I know. Sounds good, though. And I want that – fuck do I want it.”  
  
“I can tell.” James wiggles his hips a bit, just enough to press against the erection he can feel forming in the other man’s pants.  
  
“I want that,” Jeremy continues, “I want  _you_. But, tonight? Could we just get used to  _this_?” He pulls back, just enough so that he can see James’ face. Then he grins, “And in the morning, when maybe I’m just a little bit less broken, I can set about proving to you just how  _not quiet_  you are.”  
  
“That is probably the best plan you’ve ever had. Ambitious, but not even a little bit rubbish.”


End file.
